mala educación

When I first moved to Shanghai, you might remember that I was full of good intentions. Foremost among these was my desire to learn Chinese. I wanted to leave this city fluent, or at least semi- so, in Mandarin. What excuse does one have after two years of immersion? Yet, a year and half later, here I am making excuses - or at least searching for some justification - for my remarkably slow progress.
I hate to admit that I have given up on learning Chinese. Three years ago, I had an essay published that discussed the necessity of my learning Chinese in order to fully discover my heritage and personal identity. My parents are from Hong Kong; my grandparents, too. My ancestors are from the provinces of Guandong and, perhaps, Zhejiang. I am of 100% Chinese blood. So why do I refuse to learn this language?
No, I do not refuse to learn it. But somehow, maybe subconsciously, I refuse to give learning Chinese the time and attention it requires. Despite at least a year of attending staff meetings in Chinese, I still report my own status in English. Despite my company offering tuition reimbursement for Chinese lessons, I have stopped going to class. Despite having lived with them for half a year now, my two Chinese roommates still feel the need to speak to me in my native tongue and translate for me anything they say in Chinese.
For the past 18 months, I have stubbornly insisted that I want to learn Chinese when in fact foreigners with half my experience in China speak the language twice as well as I. Oh, the shame.
If I were not Chinese by blood, I would still feel guilty for wasting this opportunity for immersion. But, if I were not Chinese by blood, perhaps I wouldn't feel the pressure to succeed that I claim makes me reluctant to do just that. If I were not Chinese by blood, my mistakes would be greeted with encouragement rather than disappointment; my attempts to communicate would be reciprocated rather than halted in disbelief and criticism. If I were not Chinese by blood, learning Chinese would be a personal aspiration rather than a public expectation.
So, here we are, six months from the end of my stay in Shanghai, and I have chosen, once again, to disappoint the public, to fail to realize my youthful potential, to satisfy my own personal interests instead: I have signed up for French lessons at L'Alliance Francaise. Let the uproar begin.